Angelic Deductions
by DireWolf88
Summary: His kind had always been a passionate race, though he himself could never attest to that fact, until now. Until her- with her sweet soul, big brown eyes, and soft beautiful wings. Can his impressive attributes as both an Angel and a Consulting Detective be enough to win her, or will an ancient evil rise to destroy them both?
1. Chapter 1

_**BBC's Sherlock is not mine.**_

John was running all out now. Pumping every last ounce of his considerable strength into the sprint. Fangs extended, night vision zeroed in on their fleeing prey, the Nosferatu was desperate to end this hunt.

He wanted to get home to his mate. His beautiful, feisty mate, who he had promised to join later that night for a naked dance under the full moon. Mary was half Gypsy, half Pixie, and all mischief. She had the ability to bring the occasional wild side out of his normally stoic being. A fact which frightened him early in their Courtship. But fate had declared she was his, from the moment he saw her sultry dance beneath a circus tent on one of their cases, he knew she was his. The lightening strike to his gut spread a warmth throughout his entire being settling like a stone into the pit of his soul.

The sound of wings swooshing overhead drew his thoughts back to the moment at hand. He shook off thoughts of his tempting mate and focused on the chase, barely catching sight of his partner in the air above him, dodging and weaving through the London buildings with a stealthy expertise that still left John impressed, even after all these years of knowing him.

"Stop running, Moran! This is pointless!" John yelled at the culprit. They continued the chase down a dark alley, which turned out to be a dead end. Moran turned around and found an angry ex-military man in full Nosferatu mode mere inches from his face. But he was not without his own defenses. He extended his claws preparing for a knock down drag out fight, but never got the chance. He heard the softest of thuds behind him and turned again to find himself boxed in. By an Angel. Its midnight colored wings were spread to their fullest extent, as he had obviously just landed.

"Well Sebastian, I believe this has gone on quite long enough. Don't you?" the Angel questioned with a brisk snap of its wings. The action and the deep baritone accompanying it made Moran flinch. Fear was an unpleasant stench in the air.

He gulped. "Never. My people deserve to be heard. To be respected. Revered even. Instead, we are forced to hide in the shadows. Like animals!" Despite his anxiety, his temper gave him courage and he raged against his would be captors. But his little rebellion was short-lived.

The Noseratu growled behind him and used a strong grip on his shoulder to force him to his knees. The Angel flared his wings once more and pumped them once, the strong gust of wind effectively silencing Moran.

"Ridiculous Demon drivel. Your people _have_ been heard and most are respected, living good honest lives with the same liberties and freedoms as all other species. But your _faction _cannot settle for that. You use terror and death in your bid for power. A coward's way."

Moran spit at the Angels feet. "Blasted Angel superiority. You think you are gods...but you are no better than the rest of us."

Here, the Angel let out a very uncelestial snort. "I never boasted such a claim. I_ am_ superior of course, but that has nothing to do with my species and everything to do with my vast intellect and skills of deduction. Wouldn't you say John?" This last question was directed at the Nosferatu.

John let out an exasperated sigh. "Sure. Now can we please finish this?" he insisted, squeezing Moran's shoulder so hard that the Demon squeaked in pain. "Sorry," John mumbled halfheartedly.

"Ah yes of course, your carnal appointment. Very well. Sebastian Moran, Kethari Demon First Class, the Celestial Council has found you guilty of mass homicide, illegal weapons trading, and terrorism. Well, I say the Council, but really it was _me_ who gathered the extensive evidence against you. It was easy really. A simple matter of locating your-"

"Ehem..." John interrupted.

The Angel glared at his partner, but waved his hand in acknowledgement. "Yes, yes. These charges have been placed before you. How do you plead?" The light atmosphere from mere seconds before vanished with the official question. The power in the air was simmering- gathering around the Angel, prepared to do his bidding.

Moran's smile was cold, his tone when he answered even frostier. "Guilty. And_ proud _of it."

The Angel nodded, obviously not surprised. Demons were after all, a habitually stubborn and proud race. His confession was expected.

John spoke up, his voice thickened around his fangs. "By tradition, you are granted a final request, should it be within reason and our power to fulfill."

Moran ignored the Nosferatu's presence and looked straight into the Angel's eyes, but couldn't maintain the connection for long. The power was simply too great. "My request is this- I would know the name and title of my murderer."

The Angel pulled a greatsword from the sheath at his back and rested the tip of the blade on the Demon's shoulder. "So be it. But I am no murderer. I am a Triskelion Angel, First Class, and a member of the Order of Gabriel, sent to seek out injustice and evil, and dispose of it. But my own self imposed title and the one I most identify with is consulting detective."

John rolled his eyes at that last bit, releasing his grip and stepping back, far enough away to avoid the deadly blade, but fully capable of stopping Moran should he attempt to escape.

The Angel summoned the roiling power and gathered it into the sword's gleaming blade, using two hands to raise it above his head. "And the name...is Sherlock Holmes." With that, he brought the blade down in a powerful arc, removing the Demon's head from its body with frightening ease, sending both pieces into an explosion of silver dust moments after death.

"Bleck." Sherlock grunted in disgust shaking his wings out in an attempt to remove the Demon residue from his feathers. "Why must they always make such a mess?"

John laughed. "Yes Sherlock, I'm sure the last thought on their minds just before death is 'hm, I really must ruin my executioner's night by dirtying their wings and outfit."

Sherlock seemed to consider this before shaking his head. "No, I don't believe that's right. Really, John, you should leave the deductions to me."

"Yeah, I'll be sure and do that," John grumbled beneath his breath. With the hunt ended, John allowed his fangs to retract and his vision returned to normal. He turned around to check that the alley remained secure. "You know, we need to repor-" He stopped talking after he heard the tell-tale rustling sound that indicated his partner had already left.

Sure enough, he turned around and found the alley empty. He glanced up and found Sherlock hovering a good ways above him, the flap of his massive wings appearing as dancing shadows in the night due to their dark color.

"Until tomorrow, John. I'll meet you at Bart's at 8." He spoke no louder than he normally would, but John's sensitive Nosferatu hearing allowed him to decipher every word as if he were standing right beside him.

John afforded his friend a sarcastic salute, then took to the shadows and began to make his way home, his pace too fast for the average human to notice as more than a passing breeze. He sensed more than saw Sherlock make a show-boating pass above his head before turning in the opposite direction toward 221B. No matter- John would soon be home with his mate and engaging in his favorite Gypsy ritual. One that left he and his mate sweaty and exhausted by morning.

Besides, their appointment at Bart's was to meet the new pathologist. John had conducted some minor research on Doctor Molly Hooper and had discovered to his surprise that she too was an Angel. It was rare for an Angel to be in such a morbid position. They were generally creatures of light and joy, reveling in life. But he supposed Sherlock was an exception as well, what with his fascination with solving mysterious deaths and the science behind them. John had rarely seen Sherlock interact with his own kind, not counting his brother, much less one that was outside the norm like him.

The last coherent thought in John's head that night before encountering his naked wife in their secluded back yard was that tomorrow's introductions should be an interesting experience indeed.

_**Greetings all. Direwolf here. I have NOT given up on The Hunt is On, but this little gem would not leave me be. I have a pretty cool plan laid out for it, some chapters written up and am really enjoying the universe in my head. There will be lots of romance, hot action, and supernatural awesomeness. Anybody interested?**_


	2. Chapter 2

**BBC's Sherlock is not mine. Sad.**

Nervous. There was no other descriptive for her current state of being. She was confident in her skills and abilities, but nervous about her position in this new place. St. Bart's was one of the premiere establishments in the nation for forensic pathology and Molly had worked diligently for ages to secure a position here. Though in all honesty, it had come a tad easier than expected. Apparently, there had been a string of abrupt departures amongst the senior staff in the pathology department and not two weeks after sending her credentials in for consideration, she had received a rather terse phone call offering her the esteemed position. She accepted immediately. It was her dream job after all.

But now, as she stood in the gleaming white and mirror plated morgue, she was struck with a wave of unsurety. She wrung her hands in trepidation and fluffed her large cream and gold colored wings in a telling motion, wondering desperately if she had bitten off far more then she could chew. _'Be brave, Molly girl._' Her dear father's voice echoed in her mind. She took a steadying breath and thought of his kind gray eyes and soothing voice. A deep calm overtook her. She could do this. She snapped her wings tight to her rear torso and began to move around the space,_ her space_, cataloguing every piece of equipment and making slight rearrangements where she deemed necessary. Not long after she began, a body was rolled in by pair of bored looking techs. They tried to linger and escape further duties, but she shooed them away and tucked into the autopsy.

This was her element. She was meticulous and little to nothing escaped her keen eye. So focused on her work was she, that when a trio of gentlemen traipsed into her morgue, it took her a solid 3 minutes before she noticed them. And even then, it was only due to a subtle undercurrent of electricity that was now vibrating around her.

Her head snapped up and she found herself staring directly into the most alluring pair of eyes she had ever seen. Approximately 10 centimeters from her face, belonging to a man stood across from her, bent over the same body she was currently two hands deep in. Her gut reaction was to assume a defensive pose with wings spread wide. Luckily, she was an experienced enough Angel to keep instinct under control. One burst of wing expansion in panic would have knocked over her tray of instruments and compromised the evidence she had gathered neatly off to the side. As it was, she simply gasped in surprise and calmly extricated herself from the autopsy, quickly disposing of her gloves and washing up at the sink station before finally facing her still silent visitors.

Her focus was immediately drawn to the same man she had glimpsed over the body. He was, simply put, stunning. Dark curls poured down over sharp cheekbones and a pair of knowing (if not jaded) blue-green eyes. He was lean, but she guessed at a well-muscled physique beneath all that fine tailoring. He adjusted his stance slightly and the movement drew her attention to his most telling feature. Enormous wings jutted from his upper back into a sharp arch reaching just slightly above his head before falling in a graceful line nearly to the floor. His primary feathers were a gleaming jet color with his secondaries and tertiaries falling into more muted shades of black, giving his wings the illusion of constantly trailing shadows. And the power she felt radiating throughout the room...it was staggering. And it was all coming from him.

_Holy Hippocrates, he was a Triskelion Angel, _she thought_._ A rare breed indeed.

Her observations lasted all of 10 seconds (though it seemed to her an eternity). When the man, nor either of his companions made to break the awkward silence, she decided to get on with it.

"Hello." _Brilliant, Molly. Just brilliant_.

The Triskelion before her, previously frozen in a similar state as her, sniffed in disdain at her simple greeting and seemed to shake himself easily of whatever had held them both captive. Too bad she could not seem to do so as easily.

"Hello" he replied drolly with a roll of his eyes. And his voice...dear gods. It brought to mind erotic images of velvet sheets and melted chocolate.

"Um, I'm sorry, but what are you doing here?" Molly shook her head to clear it of the damned fuzziness that had pervaded it.

When the male Angel made no move to respond, one of the other men in the room found their voice and executed introductions.

"Hello, Dr. Hooper, is it?" one mad said, Human, extending his hand.

Moly accepted it kindly, immediately warming to his approachable and friendly demeanor. "Yes, I am Dr. Hooper."

"Well of course she is, look at the state of her," the Angel mumbled rudely, now once again bending over her corpse. He seemed to be studying it astutely.

_What was __**that**__ supposed to mean,_ Molly thought ruefully, giving herself a surreptitious once over.

The Human resolutely ignored his companion and pressed on, still holding her hand. "Its lovely to meet you, Doctor. I am DI Greg Lestrade with the Yard. We should be seeing a lot of each other, you and I," he ended with a wink, his actions and tone flirtatious, without being obnoxious.

Molly allotted him a shy giggle in reward for his efforts. After all, not many Human men had the courage or audacity to flirt with an Angel. And Molly appreciated it. She couldn't even remember the last time a male of ANY species had bothered with it in regards to herself.

Her appreciative musings were cut short however when the Triskelion once again butted in. "Not likely, Gavin. She seems as dense as the previous three pathologists we attempted to work with-"

"YOU attempted to work with! We didn't get a bloody chance really" Lestrade (_did he call him Gavin, I thought his name was Greg_) tried to interrupt to no avail.

"-the obvious differences being that she is female, less common in this particular field, and of course, an Angel. Which in itself was interesting for a molecularly brief time, but pish-" he accompanied this statement with a dismissive wave of his hand in her general direction "no matter."

"Sherlock!" the other male, Nosferatu, snapped at the Angel. So that was his name- this cruel man. Sherlock. A unique and regal nomenclature. Despite her building anger, she couldn't help but note it suited him perfectly.

Sherlock shrugged indifferently and, seemingly finished with his inspection of the body, began strolling around the room, midnight wings trailing exquisitely behind him, making not a whisper of sound, despite their size. That took true power and skill. He affected a casual posture, but every bit of Molly's being screamed that he was a predator. A dangerous creature that she should NOT expose her wings to. But polite society dictated otherwise, so she remained resolutely still while he prowled (no other word for it) around her.

"Forgive him, Doctor. This is Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective for the police. I'm afraid my associate is not skilled in social niceties or even decent behavior apparently-" this was said with a growl through slowly extending fangs and aimed in Sherlock's direction "but, ignore him for now. Please. I'm John Watson, also a Doctor, though my expertise lies in trauma. I must say, its an honor to meet you. I've only ever met two other Triskelions in my life."

He did not extend his hand like the Human, Lestrade, did but Molly didn't mind. Nosferatu were notoriously guarded beings and his air and manner were both polite and respectful.

Molly nodded in greeting, ignoring his faux pas in calling her a Triskelion for now. "A pleasure to meet you Dr. Watson. You were a field medic, yes? In the Army?"

John gave her a smile. "Quite right. How on earth did you know?"

Molly chuckled, finally warming up to at least two of her guests. "I-"

But yet again she was interrupted by the infuriating Sherlock. "Don't be daft, John. It was obviously a lucky guess." He was alarmingly close to her now, his dark wings mere spaces away from her cream colored slightly smaller ones. She stepped back involuntarily. Wrong move, she knew immediately. Never give ground to a predator, they always pounce. And pounce he did. "Observe. Unlike every other medical professional of prestige, she has not immediately hung her University diploma prominently, indicating it was a place of no note. Her frumpy second hand clothing point towards a lack of self esteem (justly so I might add, _he mumbled in an aside_) usually present in established scholars."

"That's enough, Holmes!" Lestrade tried to interrupt, but he was promptly ignored. Molly was stunned, gaping in disbelief.

Sherlock continued. "Her guess about you, John, was just that- a guess. No great hardship. And for heaven's sake, John, she is_ no_ Triskelion. Based on her sallow complexion and dull coloring, she is obviously from one of the lower ranks. Given that her softly-arched wings are currently sweeping the floor due to inherent weakness _and_ I sense little to no power radiating from her, I would say Cherubim, or perhaps Urielan. I'd know for sure if I could get a closer look at her scalp..." And at that final insulting deduction he reached long, strong-looking fingers toward her, as if to ACTUALLY check her hair line.

She jerked back from him, bumping unceremoniously into the edge of her autopsy table. It should be noted that Molly had not cried in ages. Not since the day she stood solitary vigil by her father's grave as he was lowered slowly into it. But she stood now with misty eyes, unable to stop a lonely tear as it escaped down her cheek. She was unsure if it stemmed from anger or humiliation at such treatment, but at this point, she didn't much care. When it came to this man, this...consulting detective- She. Was. Done.

"How dare you, sir?!" she gritted out.

He flinched back slightly in surprise at the fire in her voice and eyes, and she took advantage, pressing on. "I haven't hung my diploma because I only just arrived this morning and almost immediately a body was brought in for autopsy. I believed it was prudent to complete that first before satisfying my own vanity. Forgive me if that does not live up to some ridiculous standard." She huffed mockingly. He merely blinked at her, so she continued. "I wear these 'frumpy, second-hand clothes' because I had to pay my own way through Oxford Medical (all 3 men in the room raised an impressed eyebrow at that revelation), not for any lack of self esteem. Though, based on your rather devastating appraisal of my physical appearance-" her voice cracked here despite her best efforts against it, "perhaps I _should_ re-evaluate."

She turned from him and found Lestrade and Watson looking at her with pained expressions. She was in no mood for their pity though and spun back around to face the Triskelion, who hadn't moved a bit. It was eerie really.

She continued, "As for my species...Well done you. I am indeed NO Triskelion, thank goodness, if you are the prime example of your kind. My 'sallow coloring and dull complexion' I have no defense for other than they were genes gifted me. But my wings are dragging because I was flying throughout the night to make it to London for this first shift. They only just offered me the position two days ago. Normally, they are as tight and controlled as any Angel worth their salt, and to insinuate otherwise is one of the gravest insults to our kind as you well know."

There was just the smallest hint of a blush beginning to form on his cheeks. _Shame? Not likely_.

"As for my Breed, I am neither Cherubim or Urielan. Not that its any of your sodding business, but I am in fact, Seraphim." He definetely flinched at this revelation. Her kind was alarmingly rare. Delicate, but extremely powerful in their own right. "And lastly, I 'guessed' Army doctor based on his military stance and hair style and the scarring on his hands and face despite the incredible regenerative capabilities of his kind. The most logical conclusion is a battle-hardened field medic."

Molly felt herself physically deflate. She finished her responding tirade with a tired punctuation. "So you were wrong. About everything. _Everything_, Mr. Holmes," she finished in a whisper.

Silence. It rang painfully throughout the morgue. John had seen much in his long years, but this had to take the cake. THE Sherlock Holmes, put in his place by this small slip of a woman. If he wasn't entirely devoted to his Gypsy mate, he might've found himself half in love with this Dr. Hooper for her temerity in the face of such a man. He was however glad that Sherlock had left his broadsword at Baker Street: this woman needed no sharp weapons within her reach with this amount of righteous anger boiling up in her.

"Ahem, well we'll just be going then," Lestrade finally broke. He turned to leave, but was stopped by a gentle hand on his arm, quickly retracted. Molly looked shaken, but had donned a mask of sincere professionalism.

"I was finishing up the autopsy when you arrived. I'll have the official report typed up and sent to you within the hour. But my preliminary findings indicate that this death was from natural causes, not homicide." As she spoke, John observed Sherlock using all of his natural grace to collect his thoughts and resume his normal haughty demeanor behind her. John was confused though as to why Sherlock remained so close to her, despite the confrontation and his natural inclination against physical proximity.

Molly was frustrated. Despite her put-down of him, he edged ever closer. And her body was responding, against all of her will power. She felt her cheeks and _other_ parts of her body blush embarrassingly, the hair on her arms standing at attention. She resolutely ignored it.

Oblivious to the undercurrents all around him, Lestrade was impressed. This body was only just processed this morning and it usually took the lab much longer to produce results. His curiosity pressed him to ask, "How can you be sure, Dr. Hooper?"

She and Sherlock answered simultaneously, "The smell." Their voices harmonized beautifully in the way that only Angels could do. It seemed even in mutual hatred, Angels could not help it.

At this Sherlock finally addressed her again. "Quite right, Dr. Hooper." That was it. No apology. No admittance of his intolerable rudeness. Just a seemingly-insincere half-compliment. There was a distinct softening around his eyes but Molly refused to acknowledge it.

His silky baritone voice continued, "I have very rarely been wrong in my deductions, Molly." It was the first time he'd said her given name. And it was devastatingly intimate.

"Its Dr. Hooper," she snapped, but the angry gusto in her voice was fading. "And today you _were_ wrong. Entirely."

He was right in front of her now, his aquiline nose almost touching hers. Holding her gaze, he acquiesced with a minute nod. "Indeed."

Then, seemingly by accident (though most assuredly not the case), he stretched his right wing the barest of lengths, and because of their close proximity, it brushed up against her left one, his glossy primaries rubbing sinuously down her soft outer secondaries. Such uninvited contact was beyond unacceptable amongst Angel-kind. It was like bestowing a passionate embrace or a heated kiss upon a stranger without their permission.

Myriad sensations wracked Molly's body simultaneously. Lust, powerful and demanding, coursed through her system. Fascination, cool and intriguing, for everything the man before her represented. But the most shocking feeling of all was the warmth. The oh-so-telling warmth that began in her core and spread its way out through her body as a powerful pulse of energy, seeming to connect with a corresponding jolt from him before settling over the both of them like a warm duvet, connecting them together in the most elemental of ways.

She gasped in surprise and he grunted, the sound visceral._ Impossible_, she thought, _not __**him**__. Not __**this**__ man of all men._

Lestrade was entirely confused now. "What the bloody hell just happened? Even _I_ felt that. All the way to my sodding toes!"

Since the pair of Angels made no move to answer the poor DI, John took pity and did it for them, though he himself was beyond flabbergasted at what had just occured.

"_That_, old chap...was a Soul-Binding energy wave."

"A _what_?!"

John chuckled incredulously. "Isn't it obvious? Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are destined. They're-."

"Mates," Sherlock finished for him, rumbling the term ominously. His unwavering gaze pierced her to her very soul- as if she was the greatest mystery he had ever had the displeasure to gaze upon.

That was the last coherent thought Molly remembered before promptly feinting to the ground, a pair of strong arms wrapping tenderly around her to break her fall, then everything faded into a welcome blackness as dark as her 'mate's' wings.

**Greetings all. Direwolf here. Did ya miss me? ;)**

**I know I sure as heck missed writing. **

**Reviews most welcome. Food for the writer's soul in fact.**


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